Bored
by Nohbdy Knows
Summary: The five times Sherlock ignored John (and the one time John tried to ignore Sherlock).


The five times Sherlock ignored John (and the one time John ignored Sherlock)…

 **ONE:**

"SHERLOCK!" John was yelling from the kitchen. He stomped out carrying some kind of sandwich. He intended to eat the sandwich before noticing the inner layer was composed of toes.

"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?!" John yelled as Sherlock lay prone on the couch, clearly gone in his mind palace.

"What could this even be for?" John shook his head, the sandwich dripping mustard and preservative on the floor, "Why would you put toes in a sandwich? And is this dried silica?"

Sherlock was unresponsive. The case consumed his thoughts and had left him recessing into his mind palace. He'd asked to not be disturbed.

"Sherlock are you trying to kill me?"

"Sherlock the flat is on fire?"

"Sherlock if you don't get up I will toss you out the window."

John though a moment. If the git wasn't going to respond, he'd at least wake up to something alarming. John tore a bite sized chunk off of the sandwich. That would do it. He placed the sandwich on Sherlock's unmoving chest. Hurrying off to the desk he scribbled a note,

'Bloody awful sandwich-JW'

That'll give him a good panic. John smiled and stuck the note under the sandwich. He then headed down to the clinic to catch up on some paperwork.

Sherlock snapped up. It was clear, the neighbor's son had killed Mrs. Okaland. He looked at the toes sandwich now in his lap.

Oh no. Had John…eaten part of it?

"JOHN! You need to go to A&E right away! John you've ingested silica and dimethylene chloride! John!"

Sherlock ran through the rooms before finding the missing chunk of sandwich and note on the table.

'Asshat-JW'

 **TWO:**

VRRRRMMMMMVRRRRRMMMMM

John tugged the pillow over his head.

VRRRRMMMMMVVVRRRMMMMM

Useless. He sat up in bed, looking at the clock.

3AM

What the fuck.

"SHERLOOOCCCKKK!"

VVRRRMMMMVVRRMMMMM

John sighed heavily and got out of bed. He rummaged through his drawers pulling on pants and a jumper.

He shuffled downstairs, where Sherlock had cleared off the dining table.

VRRMMMMVRRMMM

He held a power drill in one hand, he wearing chemistry goggles and a loosely tied dressing robe, his hair, un tamed was in all directions. He looked utterly mad. John stifled a giggle.

VRRMMMVRRMMM

The drill ground into a femur that lay across the kitchen table. John stalked closer,

"SHERLOCK!"

He didn't look up. John walked over and punched his arm,

"Sherlock!"

The drill powered down.

"Hello John."

"You do realize it's 3AM right? And some of us need to sleep. Like normal humans."

"How extraordinarily dull," Sherlock countered moving to turn the drill back on.

"Sherlock!"

VRRMMMMVRRMMM

John groaned and walked downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Can I sleep on you couch?"

"Oh dear. Of course come in. You boys have a row?

Vrrrmmmvrrmmm

"No. Sherlock has a drill."

"Oh my." Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows, "You boys be careful now. Things sound like good fun in print, but in person…quite painful."

John flushed crimson. He didn't even want to know what Mrs. Hudson was talking about.

"Mrs. Hudson, for the millionth time, we are not a couple."

"Whatever you say dear."

 **THREE:**

"Turn around."

"If you look at the staining pattern on his boots, it's obvious he worked in construction, steel toe exposed, rips here, little bits of imbedded steel. Clearly he was employed somewhere. Why was he collecting unemployment…? How…?"

"Sherlock, seriously. Turn around."

"And then there is the watch. Clearly mint condition, clean. But the rest of his skin and clothes are dirty. He takes it off for work. Heirloom. Clearly expensive. Why would whoever killed him leave it? If they are trying to claim a robbery or mugging. The wallet is gone, but he could have forgotten it… No the watch is important…"

"Sherlock," John's voice was biting. A nattering mosquito, Sherlock ignored it.

"So a gift or heirloom. Not a gift no wedding ring, no wife, clearly a wife kind of gift. Familial then. Rich parents? Possible but unlikely or he wouldn't be working construction. Not parent then. More distant. Single Uncle or Aunt? Grandparent?"

"Sherlock, now would be an excellent time to either open you eyes or call 999."

"Not a grandparent. Watch would probably to parents. Aunt or uncle then. Someone with money. Money to pass down. Did he have siblings?"

"I don't bloody know. Sherlock!"

"What is it John?" Sherlock broke from his internal and external analysis to see a man very similar looking to the victim holding a knife to John's throat.

"Oh," Sherlock's eyes widened. John saw the flash of fear on his face. The look he only got when he seemed to be in mortal danger. It was equal parts satisfying and terrifying.

"I'm his cousin. Dad wanted to give him the money, not me." The man held John tightly.

"Always something…" Sherlock shook his head.

"A little help would not go amiss." John called.

"Right." Sherlock looked around the room. He grabbed a water glass off the hotel table and threw it, hitting John's captor in the face. John wrestled the man to the ground and held him until the yard showed up.

 **FOUR:**

"I can't find my jumper."

John walked down stairs, white t-shirt on, jumper clearly missing.

"Sherlock!" John looks in the kitchen.

Nothing. No experiments bubbling over the counter. He checks the living area. No figure on the couch or on the chair.

John hesitates before knocking on Sherlock's bedroom door. He's never actually been in the other man's bedroom.

"Sherlock?" He receives no supply but the door, not fully latched opens.

This is how John learns Sherlock sleeps on his stomach, sprawled out to take up as much of the bed as possible. And this is how John learns Sherlock actually sleeps, and without clothes. John quickly shut the door.

He checks the bathroom for his jumper and unable to find it goes back upstairs to collect a different one.

He still can't believe Sherlock needs to do something as dull as sleep, he chuckles to himself, and without pants.

 **FIVE:**

"Hello," John said, turning to face Sherlock, who has just walked into him.

Again.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled, sidestepping John and peering into the window of the shop.

"Do you think we could break in?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John replied, "we are not going to jail. I cannot share a cell with you. One of us would die."

"I think we need to break in." Sherlock eyed the key pad and deduced the code from wearing of finger marks. The entered the bikes shop, spokes and wheels gleaming in the darkness.

"Sherlock. We can't bring anything we find to the police. This isn't legal."

"No. But I can find out who killed Mr. Gritnok here."

"How?"

Sherlock ignored John and perused the bike locks.

"Got to be something small. But heavy."

"How do you know it came from this store?" John asked, looking at seat replacements.

"Obvious. Mr. Gritnok owned a lock store, one block down. Disgruntled customer wanted an unpickable bike lock. Went to both places. Check the records. Or observe. While we were in the lock store a man came in. Looking for his bike lock. Desperate, sweaty…"

John couldn't help but chuckle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Why do I bother…" He picked up several variations of locks, pins, handles.

John found a hub. In fact he found one, in a package meant to contain two.

"Sherlock!"

"It's got to be small. Rounded at the ends, heavy. Metal. Not small as a spoke, not as big as the seat pole…what am I missing?"

"I found something!"

"Obviously it came from here… it had to have…"

John placed something cylindrical in Sherlock's hand. The cool metal of it contrasting the warmth of John's fingers. Reflexively Sherlock held on and looked at the object.

"Ah! Yes, this is it!" He beamed, turning his eyes locked with John's. For a moment John though Sherlock might kiss him. However, in true Sherlockian fashion he turned off and rushed out of the store. John stood confused before chasing after him.

 **TABLES TURNED** :

"Bored," Sherlock grumbled. He stood from his chair and paced the room. A quick glance confirmed John was actually here this time. He was wearing pajama pants still. No plans to go out then. Excellent.

"Jawwn…" Sherlock whined as he flopped down on the couch, "why is everything so dull…"

John gave no response, feet crossed at the ankles and lounging in his chair he had his laptop open and appeared to absently mindedly scrolling through something. Probably cat memes, or a new dating profile. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and watched John's eyes flick over the screen.

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled himself to a new angle. He lay across the couch, feet resting near the ceiling and head on the floor. He steeped his fingers. Why was it, that whenever there was a lull it was so absolute as to leave nothing to do. His inbox was sparse, nothing higher than a three. No messages from Mycroft or Lestrade. He sighed again.

John hadn't moved position, though he had stopped scrolling. A video then. He had a slight smile, the corner of one lip tugged up. Something amusing. Even John wasn't being fun to deduce at the moment. He began typing something.

"Jawwnnnnn…" Sherlock complained, "Boreddd…." John finally looked up at where he expected Sherlock to be and saw feet. He looked down at the floor to Sherlocks head, cheeks flushed due to blood rushing to the head.

"What?" John said, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

"I'm bored." Sherlock observed John's impatience in the tick of his jaw, and twitch of his right hand.

"Check the inbox," John gestured to the computer.

"Nothing above a three. Not worth getting up for."

"Text Greg."

"Who?" Sherlock looked puzzled.

"For fucks sake Sherlock. DI Lestrade," John's voice was increasingly exasperated.

"Oh," Sherlock looked past John, "It's his day off."

"Mycroft then."

"Bored John. Not desperate." Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. Sherlock sighed again and rolled off the couch landing on the floor with a thud.

John shook his head. He continued typing.

"How about the pancreas in the fridge. Maybe you can experiment with that."

"I am," Sherlock stated, "It needs to incubate for five more days before I measure toxicity."

John grumbled, "Then start a new experiment. Or classify more ash, I don't know!"

Sherlock got up off the floor, "John where is your gun?"

"No. No Sherlock. You are not shooting in the flat again. Mrs. Hudson will kick you out this time," John looked pointedly up at the bullet hole in the ceiling sealed with caulking powder.

Sherlock frowned but walked up behind John, "What then are you doing, that is so interesting?"

John pulled his laptop shut with a snick, his eyes wide.

"Nothing."

Sherlock grinned.

"If you are bent on hiding it's either illegal or embarrassing. And as I do not care if it is legal or not, it's embarrassing."

He reached around John, plucking the laptop open long enough to see the doctor had been writing. John was still as Sherlock read over his shoulder. John was writing about them. Them not on cases, but at Baker Street, arguing and laughing and being completely mundane.

"John this is…the boring parts," Sherlock's eyes remained stuck to the screen, "And it isn't on the blog."

"I…like to write both," John admitted a faint flush on his ears, "I like to remember."

Sherlock considered, his head tilted. He refused to admit to having parts of his memory palace devoted to John, and these mundane moments. Yet, he felt like he was glimpsing into John's mind, the closest he had to a palace, his written blog, published or no. He filed the information away for later.

"Hmmm…" was all he said, chin resting on John's shoulder, as John recovered and with a soft sigh moved to typing their latest case on the official blog.

"Borreeddd…..." his voice carried right into John's ear. John twitched and turned to affix Sherlock with a stare and scowl. He hadn't realized Sherlock was still so close. Sherlock's silver eyes bore into John's blue,

"Bored."

John didn't know what he was going to do until his was already too far into the motion to change course of action. He closed the minimal distance between his and Sherlock's lips. His subconscious fully intended to only give a peck, just enough to shut him up for a bit.

He hadn't counted on Sherlock opening his mouth, probably to declare his boredom again. Sherlock's lips were softer than he expected a man's to be, and warm. John couldn't bring himself to pull away, his body acting of his own accord, lips parting and tongue poking out to caress Sherlock's. Sherlock remained slack, unmoving. John pulled back, opening his eyes a hand flying to his own lips in disbelief at his own actions. Sherlock was still, he hadn't pulled away or spoken. His eyes had shut and his lips were still parted. John almost smiled at the expression but it weighed on him, what he had done. Destroyed their friendship, possibly. He decided to try to brush it off. Maybe salvage something.

"Not bored then," John stated, computer humming on his lap, forgotten in favor of staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't know how to process this sensory information. One moment he was complaining to John, the next… he was being kissed. It wasn't a common occurrence, and the few previous times had left him vaguely discussed with banal human bodily function and fluid. Yet, John was warm, gentle, and unexpected. He could only say for certain the rush of dopamine and oxytocin in his brain was quite possible a far more addictive drug than cocaine ever could be. And Sherlock was certain he could easily become addicted to the feeling. His eyes snapped open to John having pulled away, verbalizing something he couldn't hear, or just ignored. And how had ignored this, he could hear John's racing pulse, see his blown pupils, John was feeling something.

John saw the second Sherlock's eyes opened that he was being analyzed. He looked back, taking note of Sherlock's blush, and the hitch in his breath. The man could pretend all he wanted, he was human and he was not a sociopath, and he was feeling something.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. Perhaps it was embarrassment. John swiftly decided to apologize,

"Sorry—I—don't know what came over me…"

Oh, Sherlock thought, realizing John was trying to apologize. He thought Sherlock was embarrassed, or rejecting him. That wouldn't do. Sherlock turned the tables caution in his slow movements, he closed the gap and saw permission? Joy? Disbelief? In John's eyes as he kissed John back, now, closed mouthed and a bit clumsy with inexperience. He figured John would forgive this. John responded in kind, before pulling back.

"Sherlock…?" He seemed unable to formulate another word, brows drawn in confusion, but out of breath.

"John." Sherlock said, "I—I'm not…" He felt confused, unsure what to say. But he knew he wanted more of this.

John caught the fear in Sherlocks voice and pulled back, creating enough distance to breath in, talk in, easier.

"You're married to your work," John nodded.

"And you're not gay," Sherlock retorted, not breaking eye contact, "And—though I don't believe in sentiment and love is just a series of illogical chemical reactions," Sherlock paused struggling for words, "I…I am in love with you."

John gaped at Sherlock, who appeared to be waiting for some reply. Both worried perhaps the other was misinterpreting. But John replied.

"I am not gay. Absolutely not gay. But I am absolutely in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, drawing close and holding John's face in his hands. John pulled him closer, melding their lips again. John licked and nibbled along Sherlock's lower lip, until he parted, allowing John in. He followed, licks along John's tongue minimal and timid, but growing in confidence as a nip to John's upper lip elicited a soft groan.

They pulled apart both a little breathless.

"John Watson," Sherlock panted, "I am not bored."


End file.
